


Love and Breath

by chargetransfer



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 06:12:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6742402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chargetransfer/pseuds/chargetransfer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m afraid, Mr. Reese, that you may find what I’m suggesting somewhat distressing,” Harold says, sitting on the couch and gesturing for John to sit beside him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and Breath

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains breath play. Breath play is, by it's very nature, dangerous and anyone engaging in this type of edge-play needs to understand the danger involved. It's a contentious topic in the BDSM community. I come down on the side of "there is no safe way to do breath play (strangulation/suffocation)." Breath play can kill you dead or cause lasting damage. Anyone who is interested should do their research. Some good links to start with are [Basics of Breathplay](http://dominantguide.com/176/take-your-breath-away-basics-of-breath-play/), [Can Breath Play Be Safe](http://dominantguide.com/3380/ask-anything-can-breath-play-be-safe/), and [Closing Argument](http://www.jaywiseman.com/SEX_BDSM_Breath_Closing_Argument.php) (the formatting is wonky, but the information is there).
> 
> There are forms of breath play that are "safer." These are centered around breath control rather than asphyxia. There are still risks involved, so it is wise to research these things thoroughly. Understand the risks.
> 
> Srsly, folks, breath play is Varsity Level Kink (thanks for that classifier, Dan Savage!). All forms of edge-play, breath play included, are dangerous and carry the risk of harm, or in the worst case, death.

* * *

 

It’s an easy thing, on the rare days when there is enough time to slip into these roles, to settle next to Harold’s chair. He’s dressed now in soft, comfortable clothes, out of his suit after a long day in the field. The folded blanket is a concession to his knees. It’s not one he would make for himself, but one that Harold demands, so it is easy enough to be grateful for the kindness. There are enough small pains he collects day-to-day to go with the larger pains that come somewhat less frequently with numbers gone wrong. Sitting back on his heels, he rests his hands, palms up, on his thighs and waits.

If he’s honest with himself, this is not what he expected when Harold suggested this arrangement. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect. He knew the general aspects of a range of BDSM acts and relationships; it was only wise in his line of work to know the variety of ways that people associated and how the give and take of those relationships could act as leverage.

His focus in the past had always been on the physical aspects: the pain, the deprivation, the humiliation. He had never understood the desire that some people had to voluntarily experience misery, why they would make themselves vulnerable to pain. Or why someone would want to experience the other side; how someone could take pleasure, sexual or otherwise, in harming another person. Real harm was part of his job, past and present, and he couldn’t imagine taking casual pleasure in it.

It hadn’t been judgement on his part. He believed that people were free to do whatever they wished, freely consenting, within reason. He just hadn’t understood.

Now, kneeling next to Finch’s chair and listening to the steady cadence of Finch’s fingers on the keys, his heart rate slows to an even, steady beat and his mind drifts to a place of silence. He waits for whatever Harold wishes, even if that is nothing but his silent presence. So John sits and waits to serve, palms open to receive whatever Harold pours into them, be it words, harsh or kind, a command, or even nothing. He waits to serve Harold and feels at peace.

This, the service, John understands.

The typing slows, stops, and Harold’s hand drops to rest on John’s head. He pushes his head subtly into the palm on his head and Harold drags his fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. Harold pets his hair for a few more moments, then drops his hand to rest on the nape of John’s neck.

“Come, John. Let’s discuss this evening’s plans.”

–

“I’m afraid, Mr. Reese, that you may find what I’m suggesting somewhat distressing,” Harold says, sitting on the couch and gesturing for John to sit beside him. John raises an eyebrow as he sits. Negotiation it is, then. He’s not quite sure what “distressing” entails, but given Harold’s preferences, there is a good chance that the play will require quite some discussion.

John does not enjoy submitting to pain play. If Harold asked for John to stand up on a cross, he would stand there willingly and let Harold flog him until he bled. If he asked John to lie on the table so he could cut into his skin with needles and knives, John would lay his bare body down for Harold, just as his mind, and if it exists, his soul, are laid bare for Harold. He knows, deep in his bones, that there is very little that Harold could ask of him that he would not do immediately, without reservation.

Harold does enjoy pain play, although submission is no part of it. John is not exactly comfortable with causing Harold pain, but with the experience of his life before the numbers, before Harold, he’s good at it. John knows the limits of the human body and how to hurt without harming or causing lasting damage along with his knowledge of how to kill. It’s not a skill he’s ever taken pride in, just a certain amount of grim satisfaction of a job completed. Harold knows this and knows how to navigate the landmines in asking John to hurt him. And Harold has helped him understand the distinction between hurt and harm.

Harold reaches over to cover one of John’s hands where it’s resting palm-up on his thigh in an unconscious mimicry of his earlier position. “I’m sure, Mr. Reese, that you’re familiar with the concept of breath play,” Harold says. John tenses, an automatic protest on his lips. It looks like Harold has found one of the things John has reservations about. Harold tightens his hold on John’s hand. “Hear me out, John,” he says, his voice firm. John stills.

“Hypoxia is undoubtedly dangerous. And none of the methods for achieving that state are anywhere near safe.” Harold turns John’s hand in his own so he can rub his thumb soothingly against John’s palm. “Despite the inherent danger, there is something…intriguing about the purported pleasure in the practice. Aside from the physical hazard, there is also the difficulty in finding someone trustworthy enough to trust my life to.” Harold’s voice turns gentle. John looks up as Harold says, “I have every confidence that is no longer a problem.”

“Harold,” John says helplessly, “I’m not sure…” His guts twist at the thought of laying hands on Harold’s throat or over his nose and mouth, of watching his face first turn red as he struggled to breathe and then pale as his struggles weakened. John’s own breathing grows rapid in distress and his hand clenches around Harold’s. “Don’t ask me to put your life in danger.”

“Of course not, John,” Harold says, clasping John’s hand in both of his and kissing his knuckles. “I would not ask that of you, even were I inclined to unnecessarily put myself in real danger.” He breathes across John’s knuckles and John shivers at the warm breath on his damp skin. “There are other options that may serve. May I?” He asks and at John’s nod, pulls him into a kiss.

Harold’s hand is warm and heavy on the back of John’s neck and he lets himself fall into the kiss, reassured by Harold’s assertion that asphyxiation is off the table. Harold bites at his bottom lip, then seals his mouth over John’s. John tilts his head at the gentle pressure of Harold’s hand, yielding to the deepening of the kiss. He’s startled, at first, at the first slow, forceful breath from Harold, but then he relaxes and inhales for the second, third, fourth…fifth. Harold’s hand eases up and he pulls back with a gasp, panting slightly as Harold watches with a slight smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s circular breathing, Mr. Reese. Although there is some risk from hypoventilating, the danger is considerably smaller and far less dire than other forms of breath play,” Harold says, still watching intently as he gently rubs the back John’s neck. “While it isn’t likely to induce hypoxia, I believe the experience would be pleasurable enough under your hands. And, given the addictive quality of hypoxyphilia, it’s perhaps for the best to avoid temptation.” He cups John’s cheek and John pushes into the touch. “It’s already difficult enough to maintain self-discipline around you, Mr. Reese.” Harold leans forward, his lips just brushing the shell of John’s ear. “After all, why shouldn’t I use what belongs to me?” John shivers as Harold sits back and raises an eyebrow.

John sits back as well and scrubs a hand over his face. His thoughts tumble over each other, the risks of Harold’s desire, his need to meet those desires, how it could all go wrong or right.

“I don’t know, Finch.” John says. “I need time to think about it.”

“Of course, John.” Harold replies, standing. “Take all the time you need.” He holds out his hand. “Come to bed?”

John takes his hand and follows him to bed.

–

John thinks about Harold’s request all week in his downtime; he considers and researches and thinks again. Harold gives him space outside their dynamic while he turns the idea over and over. They still spend their evenings and nights together and tonight John is sprawled out on the couch, his head resting on Harold’s thigh as Harold absently runs his fingers through John’s hair. The bulk of Harold’s attention is on the laptop balanced precariously on the arm of the couch. It’s quiet and peaceful and gives John the time to make his decision.

His fundamental conflict has been finding the objectivity to make the decision. He wants very much to please Harold; he also very much does not want to harm him. He’s grateful that Harold hadn’t asked him for the other means. While he’s reasonably certain that he could manage to temporarily restrict Harold’s blood flow without causing lasting damage, the risk was still real. With a target, that risk was almost always acceptable. With Harold, it is simply not.

With circular breathing, risk were minimized. The receptive partner could still get a rush, although not the intense giddiness and hallucinatory state that hypoxia would bring. Respiratory acidosis was a possibility, but, quite honestly, a remote possibility with John keeping close watch. If anything, circular breathing could be far more intimate than strangulation, with both partners in close contact, sharing breath. John shifts on the couch at the thought, his own breath coming quicker.

Harold notices and his hand stills. “Are you quite alright, John?” he asks, looking down at John.

John nods, his mouth dry with his decision. “I think it’s time to talk about what you want, Harold.

–

It’s not an elaborate scene, just low lights in their bedroom and a few supplies, including a rescue inhaler, on the nightstand. John has already stripped and kneels at the foot of the bed with his hands clasped behind his back, waiting for Harold. It’s almost a pleasure to wait; he’s made his decision, the terms have been set, and John has delivered himself into Harold’s care.

He watches through his lashes as Harold comes out of the master bath, barefoot and wearing a navy cashmere dressing gown. He stops in front of John and draws him up with a gentle hand under his chin. “Are you ready?” Harold asks, looking up into John’s eyes.

“Yes, sir,” John replies, corner of his mouth curving up into a sly smile as he lets his eyes trail over the robe hanging from Harold’s shoulders. Harold frowns at him in confusion for a moment, then huffs in exasperation.

“It’s a perfectly comfortable dressing gown Mr. Reese. If you find it so objectionable, you should remove it,” Harold says, arching his eyebrow.

He grins at Harold before smoothing his expression and bowing his head. “Yes, sir,” he murmurs, untying the belt and pushing the robe off Harold’s shoulders. He folds the robe carefully and drapes it over the back of chair valet in the corner. Turning back to Harold, he swallows as he watches the humor slide from Harold’s face as his shoulders straighten.

“Come here, John,” Harold says, voice perfectly controlled. John moves to stand in front of Harold before he consciously registers the steps. Harold trails an appreciative hand down John’s shoulder. “Let’s begin.” He gestures to the bed.

John kneels in the center of the bed, knees spread, his body on display. He knows that Harold likes to look at what belongs to him, scarred skin and all.

“Very good, John,” Harold says. He settles on the bed next to John and reaches up to fist his hand in John’s hair, pulling him back and down until his head is low enough to take a kiss. John relaxes into the stretch and once Harold draws back, he continues to sink down until his shoulders touch the mattress, arms stretched over his head, back arched and cock curving against his stomach. He twitches once for the vulnerability of the pose before steadying under Harold’s hand on his chest.

“Yes, yes, now you’re just showing off,” Harold says. “Supta Virasana, indeed.” His fond tone belies the testy words. He grips John’s cock and gives it one firm stroke. “I wonder, though, how long you can hold good form given enough distraction,” he muses, teasing the head of John’s dick then stroking slowly and firmly, tip to root. John’s abdominal muscles clench and he hisses through is teeth, struggling to maintain the posture as Harold continues to work him. His hands clench and unclench rhythmically in time to Harold’s strokes.

Harold leans down carefully, braced on the arm not driving John out of his mind, and nips at the skin over John’s collarbones. John gasps and arches his back even more, but even lost as he is to Harold’s hands, Harold’s mouth, he still keeps his shoulders on the bed.

“Very good, John, well done,” Harold says, the praise as solid a touch as the hand on his dick.

John groans in response, “Harold… _Sir_!” He rolls his head to the side.

“Ah, ah, John. Not quite yet,” Harold says and John gasps as Harold’s hand stops. John collapses against the bed, panting. “Now, John, stretch out your legs.” John complies slowly, winching as his knees protest. Perhaps Hero Pose was not the wisest choice, given the vintage of his joints.

“Are you ready to go on now, John?” Harold asks, still braced over John. At John’s nod, Harold leans over and kisses him deeply. “My very good boy,” Harold says, then levers himself up to reach for something out of John’s line of sight on the nightstand. He drops an item to the bed near John’s head, then stretches out on his back next to John. A tug on his shoulder has John rolling up on his side, fitting his body along Harold’s.

Harold takes John’s hand, and turning it up, drops a small object into his palm. John looks down and can’t control his startled huff of laughter. It’s a nose clip, the kind that swimmers wear. He smirks at Harold.

“Nose clip, Harold?” He asks, amused.

“Well, Mr. Reese, I have more planned for your hands than you holding my nose,” Harold says, tone dry enough to shame a desert despite the answering smirk.

John’s hands shake a little as he slips the clip over Harold’s nose, the gravity of the situation setting in now that they’re ready to start. Harold raises his hands to clasp John’s where they hover near his face. “Remember, John, if you must stop, do so.” Harold says, looking intently into John’s eyes. “Your well-being is worth infinitely more than any curiosity on my part. Do you understand me?”

John nods, not trusting his voice.

Harold gives his hands a gentle squeeze. “In words, John. I need to hear you say it. Do you understand me?” He says.

“Yes, sir,” John rasps.

“Good. I have you. What I need from you is honesty. If what we do becomes too much to ask, you must tell me. Do I have your word?” Harold asks.

“Yes, sir,” John repeats, his voice stronger.

Harold squeezes his hands again, then lies back against the pillow. When he draws John’s hands down to frame his face, John draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “You may start,” Harold says.

–

Harold is coming apart under his hands and mouth, or at least, as apart as he ever does. Harold has one hand fisted in the short hair at the crown of John’s head, the other is squeezing desperately at his shoulder. John’s mouth is sealed over Harold’s and he breathes slowly, deeply, pushing the air into Harold’s lungs and drawing it out. Even though he is able to take in fresh air through his nose and share it with Harold, he’s dizzy with the lack of oxygen and, more intensely, the impact it’s having on Harold.

He strokes Harold’s lubed cock in time with their shared breaths. John feels the abortive movement of Harold’s hips as he tries to move with John’s hand, but John has a leg thrown over Harold’s thighs, gently keeping him in place. His own arousal is a fire in his gut and he can’t help but rut once, twice against Harold’s thigh before he can stop himself. Harold hadn’t said that he couldn’t come, but he also hadn’t said that he could. He doesn’t _know_ and he wants so badly to be _good_ for Harold.

The muscles in Harold’s thighs tense under his leg and he makes an urgent noise into John’s mouth. John keeps up the steady rhythm, listening to the increasingly demanding sounds until Harold’s blunt nails dig into the skin. He can’t tell if the skin is broken or not, but the momentary loss of control makes John groan before he stops stroking. He pulls back just far enough that Harold can pant for air.

“So good, John,” Harold gasps into the space between their lips, “Again.” John shivers at the praise.

He brushes kisses over the wrist of the hand Harold still has on his shoulder. Before he seals his mouth over Harold’s once more, he whispers “Yes, sir.”

This time, John starts stroking Harold’s cock immediately in time with their shared breaths. The pace is faster, too. Harold’s been hard since the second round and John can feel him writhing as best he can, hampered by his injuries and the leg that John has slung over his thighs. The shifting of Harold’s hip against John’s groin adds to the urgency.  
The relative quiet of the room intrudes on John’s awareness. The only sounds are the quiet rustle of the sheets as Harold moves, the slick sound of John’s hand on Harold’s cock, and the almost sub-vocal noises in Harold’s throat. The sough of their breath is suddenly incredibly loud to John’s ears.

When John lets go of himself, Harold’s words are usually the tether keeping him present, the line for him to hold on to when everything else goes hazy and overwhelming. There are no words now and John feels unmoored. He stares at Harold’s face, unfocused at this distance and watches the fluttering of Harold’s eyelids. His own breath quickens and the hand braced on Harold’s forehead shakes.

Harold opens his eyes and John can see that his pupils are dilated with only a thin ring of blue showing. As he blinks at John, the foggy look fades and he reaches up to cup John’s face. The hand fisted in his hair gives a short, sharp tug and the brief flash of pain sparks from his scalp down to where his arousal is pressed up against Harold. John inhales sharply, pulling air from Harold, his hand closing down tighter on Harold. He feels more than hears the groan rumbling through Harold’s chest.

It’s hard, so hard for John to keep his mouth on Harold, breathing with him, when all he wants to do is put his mouth on Harold and hear that groan, sweet and loud over him.

John has the hazy, distant thought that perhaps he wasn’t as adverse to pain as he originally thought.

The next tug in his hair is gentler and grounds him back in the moment. His eyes are locked on Harold’s. He never expected to find anything as intimate as Harold’s voice in his hear, guiding him, almost as physical as a hands on his skin, but this, this eye-contact is nearly as consuming.

Underneath that gaze, his breath slows, steadies, and deepens. The urgency has evened out into a steady burn and the constant dizziness from low oxygen that John has been fighting against since they began shifts to euphoria. And he knows that he is not the only one; Harold’s eyes go half-lidded and his body relaxes into the mattress.

John loses his sense of time, focused on the feel of Harold hot and heavy in his hand and their shared warm breath. He lets it wash over him, sweet and tender. Harold’s head tilts back under his hand as far as his limited mobility will let him and John knows he’s close. John’s strokes get faster and when Harold’s hand drops from his face to claw at his shoulder, he releases Harold’s mouth and pulls back.

He watches as Harold gulps in a deep breath and let out a hoarse cry as he comes, spilling hot and wet over John’s hand. John keeps stroking through Harold’s orgasm, entranced by how undone his friend is. His hand slows to a stop as Harold’s breathing eases and he cups John’s face in shaking hands.

“John, my dearest,” Harold says, “that was very good. You’ve done so well.” He pulls John’s head down to kiss his forehead. “Now, my good boy, I’d like you to come for me.” Harold slides a hand down John’s arm to take his come-covered hand and places it on John’s aching cock.

John groans. Bracing his weight on one arm over Harold, it only takes a few pulls before he’s pulsing over Harold’s hip. Spent, he collapsed at Harold’s side and tucks his head into his shoulder, panting for breath. Harold wraps an arm around his shoulder and lazily pets through John’s hair. They lie there quietly as their breathing returns to normal.

Harold stirs and John levers himself up on one arm to look down on him. The corner of Harold’s mouth quirks up.

“I’d have to say,” Harold says, voice nasal from the swimmers clip. John grins and gently pulls the clip off. “Thank you, John. I’d have to say this experience was a success. What do you think?”

“Yeah, Harold, I think that’s safe to say,” John rasps.

“And how are you feeling?” Harold asks, voice gentle.

“I feel…good,” John replies. Harold searches his face for a moment. Evidently satisfied with what he sees, he nods.

“Good. We’ll discuss this more thoroughly in the morning. Now, a shower?” Harold says, pushing himself up to sitting.

“Anything you like,” John responds, helping him stand and following him to the bathroom.

**Author's Note:**

> Additional notes:
> 
> Harold calling John "my dearest" is a shout-out to the_ragnarok, who writes some of the most lovely Harold/John D/s fiction I've run across. Her work is a gift. :3
> 
> If you're curious about Harold's robe, [ is what I had in mind.](http://www.newandlingwood.com/gb/pure-cashmere-dressing-gown)
> 
> Not beta'd, so any mistakes are purely my own.
> 
> Finally, if you're unfamiliar with a reclining Hero Pose, have a look at [this](http://www.wikihow.com/Do-a-Reclining-Hero-Pose) and [this](http://www.sensational-yoga-poses.com/quad-stretches.html) (scroll down until you see "Reclining Hero Pose").


End file.
